Handful of Words
by iluvdimples314
Summary: An Alternate-Universe fic. "Even without a trace of alcohol in my bloodstream, I only have two clear memories of that night." Implied/Upcoming Neil/Todd slash. Expect five chapters chock full o' angst, with the occasional dash of hugs and sunshine.
1. Thirteen Minutes in Heaven

**Hello, friends! This is my second cautious step into DPS fanfiction, and my first attempt at a multi-chapter DPS fic. **

**Instead of watching you struggle, I'm going to tell you that this is taking place from Neil's point of view. It's a bit confusing, but please bear with me.**

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The closet door latches with a satisfying _click, _and I hear myself giggle drunkenly. I try to turn swiftly on my heel, but I end up stumbling over my own feet and into his arms. "Hey there," I whisper.

He responds with several clumsy kisses to my neck, and I feel his fingertips brush my chest as he unbuttons my shirt. I haven't even told him my name, and he's already undressing me. But I can't muster the desire to claw through the fog blanketing my mind to question myself. I lace my fingers into the thick, glossy hair at the nape of his neck and moan softly.

With a muffled chuckle, he places his hands on my waist. I can feel his breath on my collarbone- I'm guessing that he's shorter than I am- but I can barely see for the darkness and the alcohol fog.

I gasp quietly against his mouth as it smashes into my own. The kiss is violent and brief, and then he latches onto my neck.

It's a feeling I've never experienced before. He bites into my skin with just the right combination of pain and pressure, and his tongue expertly caresses my windpipe. Groaning inwardly, I let my hands slide down to his waist.

In response, he clamps down and sucks vigorously on my skin. I would be concerned about the mark he's leaving behind, but I'm preoccupied with his belt buckle. My fingers refuse to cooperate with my brain.

Sensing my struggle, he gives my neck one last nibble and reaches down to help me. His belt buckle falls to the floor with a muffled clunk. And even in pitch blackness, I can tell that it was his pants that broke its fall.

This is the point of no return. This is the edge of the cliff.

I could turn around right now, find my way back to my dorm, and fall into Todd's arms. And I'll be damned if he isn't ready to forgive and forget by now. Because I've already done both.

Or I could jump off the edge.

He eagerly peels off my shirt and throws it to the floor. With strong, calloused hands, he gingerly traces the contours of my abdomen. Then he abruptly grabs my shoulders and pushes me onto my knees. Probably with more force than he intended.

I abruptly collapse onto the floor, smacking my head sharply. The impact clears the fog in my mind, if only for a moment, and the situation crystallizes. _What the hell am I doing?_ The first rational thought I've formulated all evening.

I hold fast to his leg and pull myself up. The blood rushes rapidly out of my head, and the fog returns. There's no opportunity to escape, even if I wanted to. I'm not sure if I ever wanted to in the first place.

My brain can only piece together one coherent notion. That handful of words that Mr. Keating spoke so long ago ring so clearly:

"No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world."

And then I jump.

* * *

**_~Two Months Later~_**

Even without a trace of alcohol in my bloodstream, I only have two clear memories of that night.

I can recall all 13 minutes of my time in the closet with crystal clarity. It's almost as if my brain reprocessed each breath, each shadow, for the sole purpose of replaying later on. During the first couple of weeks, I had to get creative with shirt collars and double-Windsor knots to hide the welt on my collarbone. Now, it's nothing but a lavender smudge of an unnecessary reminder.

My other recollection happened only moments before. A bleary-eyed blond girl, draped haphazardly over the sofa, placed her red plastic cup on the cluttered coffee table and propped herself up on the nearest partygoer. "Anyone up for Seven Minutes in Heaven?"

And I know now why Mr. Keating's words echoed in my ears in the closet. Because that girl's words, her idea, had changed the world. Namely my world. I suppose I should consider myself pretty damn lucky that they didn't remember to get throw out of the closet after Minute Seven. It's anybody's guess why guys started stumbling into the closet with one another; Even the most unexplainable events can be explained by the antics of intoxicated teenagers, I suppose.

I wipe the perspiration from my forehead with a shaking hand and pull my knees closer to my chest. I can feel my ribs brush against my bare thighs, but I'm not overly worried about weight loss. I've always been rather gangly, so I must be thinning out from a growth spurt.

What does worry me is the puffy pink sore that stings whenever the pad of my thumb brushes it, ironically adjacent to the mark he left. I wrap my sheets around my shoulders as another chill washes over me. This is the third night in a row.

Normally, I would nudge Todd awake and take solace in his comforting, if slightly awkward, embrace. I rest my head against the wall and I can almost feel his arms around me, almost hear his stream of affectionate words in my ear.

But I know that I can't wake Todd tonight. Not after what I've done to him. Because I know in my gut that this is all connected to my 13 minutes in the closet. Which I haven't so much as mentioned to him yet. I can't just pass my burden down the line and expect Todd to kiss my forehead and make it all better.

Especially because I have no idea who I cheated on him with.

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**Come on, hit me with your best shot. Love? Flames? OOC complaints? I can take it. Just click on that tiny speech bubble and knock yourself out.**

**Not literally, of course. Because you won't be able to review if you're unconscious.**

**~JD**


	2. Going Unsteady

**Okey dokey, hokey pokey! Second chapter, still Neil's point of view, and very hurt/comfort-y. I was recently called a "fluff-master". I like to think that I have lived up to this title as of late.**

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As it turns out, I didn't even need to wake Todd. I could say that he sensed something, that we're so close, we're on the same wavelength. I might have said that before the party. Now I just chalk it up to coincidence and leave it at that.

Todd pulls me impossibly closer and presses kisses into my damp hair. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve him. And I'm dangerously close to telling him everything, but I don't want to ruin this. I feel his hand press against my forehead and come to rest on my cheek. "You're really warm," he whispers.

I shrug flippantly and rest my head in the crook of his neck. "Don't worry." This is all it takes to quiet Todd's concerns. He slides a cautious hand up my shirt and rubs my back steadily.

I have no right to accept his comfort, but I can't turn it away. This is what Todd thrives on: collecting all the shards and gluing me back together. When my father found out about the play, the first person I turned to was Mr. Keating. And when I returned to the dorm, sniffling and tear-stained, Todd was waiting. That was the first night we kissed.

Then there was opening night. He stared right back at me through that foggy car window, and he knew. He knew that my father had it in for me. And I don't like to think about what might have happened if Todd hadn't stepped right into the headlights. My father used some of the sternest words that I've ever heard out of his mouth, but he grudgingly agreed to talk later. I walked home with the rest of my fellow Dead Poets, but only one followed me into my dormitory. And that was the first night that, well, we did more than kissing.

And now, here I am. Another chill washes over me, and I feel Todd's hand move up to the back of my neck, squeezing reassuringly.

I love him.

I've never actually told him that. Our six-month anniversary is in three weeks, and I've never told him that I love him. Totally ridiculous. Knox told Chris in a month, and they're going steady now. Am I going steady with Todd?

It's a strange thought, even now. I've heard the stories about guys who get tired of beating off every night, and how Nolan finds one random reason or another to expel them from Welton. It's like the military, I guess: Don't ask, don't tell.

But I don't even technically consider myself, well, gay. I've never had a girlfriend, never really wanted one. But Todd is the only guy who I've ever had feelings for, the only one I've ever felt attracted to. At first I convinced myself that he just happened to be in the right place at the right time. But now I know that it goes way deeper than that. As naïve as it sounds, I think that Todd and I were made for each other, and we were destined to be together. I couldn't imagine anyone, male or female, who I could love as much as I love Todd.

And there's that word again. I push it away from my mind, knowing that I've lost the right to use that word. How could I cheat on Todd when I… feel that towards him?

"Neil," Todd whispers into my ear. I know he isn't looking for a response. I can hear the helplessness in his voice: he just wants something to say to me.

I throw the sweat-soaked sheets off the bed and wrap my arms around Todd's chest, absorbing the heat radiating from his body. I hear myself whimpering, but I don't have the energy or the motivation to stop it.

"Neil," he repeats, resting his chin on the top of my head. "We should go to the infirmary."

I have every intent to refuse, but I feel my head nodding up and down. Part of me is absolutely petrified, but the misery is overpowering. I can't take this any longer- I just want drugs. Drugs that will put me to sleep and let me stop torturing myself.

Todd hoists me onto my feet and wraps his arm around my shoulders. In all honesty, he's more or less dragging me across the floor. And as much as I'd like to help him out, I can't even muster the force required to open my eyes. "I'm sorry."

He presses one last kiss to my cheek before leading me into the hallway. "It's okay, Neil."

But I never said what I was apologizing for.

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**Complementary ToddHug for any and all reviewers.**

**Love y'all.**

**~JD**


	3. Recognition

**I don't know what's come over me. 2,500 hundred words. Yowza.**

**Oh, well. Hope y'all enjoy it. Without further ado, Chapter 3.**

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I am vaguely aware that we've reached the home stretch when my legs finally give out. Todd's arms frantically grope for my waist, but my body escapes his grasp. I collapse to the hardwood floor.

Todd follows me down to break my fall, partially succeeding. The base of my spine strikes the floor agonizingly, but he prevents my head from doing the same. I feel the pads of his fingers on my temples as I close my eyes and stifle a cry of pain. "Neil, are you okay?" he inquires. I can hear the strain and the concern in only four words.

I inhale deeply and cover his hand with my own, grimacing. "I'm fine," I hear myself say. He knows almost as well as I do that I'm far from "fine". But I suppose that's better left unspoken.

I hear a shuddery breath, and Todd's lips meet mine. His kiss is soft, warm, and comforting, yet nervous at the same time. Just like him. I cannot distinguish my reluctant tears of pain from his of sympathy, but our faces are equally damp by the time he pulls away.

"You're a mess," I whisper to Todd, opening my eyes, grinning faintly. I can't decide whether I am saying this to be ironic or truthful, but he shoots me a bemused expression all the same.

"C'mon, Neil," he chides, running his hand through my hair. I can feel his fingers quivering on my scalp, and I realize that he's as freaked out as I am. Probably more so. But he knows I need him to be strong right now, and I know he's trying. He's trying so hard. And I love him for that.

Oh, right. I… appreciate him. Immensely. For that.

I feel his wiry arms wrap around my waist, feel them grind against my ribcage. He freezes for a moment, as do I, both of us realizing only now just how much weight I've lost. His grip around me tightens. "Neil," he whispers. My name is his mantra now, I suppose. He tucks my head protectively into the crook of his neck, trembling slightly.

For a moment, I rest. "We're mere yards from the door, my dear fellow," I respond, adopting my most convincing theatrical tone. "Let us depart."

I feel Todd's dry chuckle more than I hear it. He reflexively takes a cautionary glance down the corridor, then presses a tender kiss to my cheekbone. "Okay."

Without another word or pause, we somehow manage to get to our feet. Todd keeps one arm wrapped around my shoulders, but I feel his muscles tense and then relax repeatedly. Mustn't appear suspicious. Nothing but a supportive, brotherly gesture. He knocks only once on the door to the infirmary, but the resulting noise gets its point across. I pick up faint footsteps from the other side, then the click of the doorknob, and light slices into the pitch-black hallway.

"Gentlemen, you should not be awake at such an ungodly hour, much less perusing the corridors…" The tall, forty-something, spectacled man in the threshold nudges the door open further, and I am bathed in artificial light. His voice trails off as his eyes meet my own. I cannot help but notice their lovely moss-green shade. After a glance up and down my drooping frame, he pushes the door until it is completely ajar, then gestures to Todd to come in.

Todd obliges with a nod and guides me into the infirmary's office. He gives my shoulder a squeeze that I might've missed if I hadn't been concentrating.

"There's a cot right through that door to your right," the man instructs. His tone is professional, yet sympathetic and warm, and I like him already. Then again, I'm fairly sure that I'd like anyone offering me a place to lie down at the moment.

When Todd gently releases me, I lower myself onto the cot and sigh deeply, clasping my hands together and resting them on my abdomen. Todd gnaws on his lower lip for a moment, and I can tell that he's deciding whether he should crouch down beside me or lean nonchalantly in the corner. Ultimately, he opts for the latter.

"I'm Doctor Peterson," the bespectacled man announces as he pulls the door shut behind him, flicking the light switch. "Your name?"

"Todd Anderson," Todd replies shakily. He has that glazed look in his eye that means he isn't really thinking about what he's saying.

Dr. Peterson smiles over at Todd, tapping his clipboard with his pen. "Actually, Mr. Anderson, I was referring to your friend. But it's nice to meet you."

"Neil Perry, sir," I respond, quieter than intended. As his pen scratches across the clipboard, I can't help but wonder what this man is doing at Welton. Apart from Mr. Keating, I haven't come across anyone nearly as pleasant as Dr. Peterson. Not that I'm complaining. It's a lovely change, especially under the circumstances.

Dr. Peterson slips his reading glasses into his pocket. I realize now that he's wearing checkered pajamas, which he haphazardly covered with a forest green terrycloth robe. I feel instinctive remorse for waking him in the middle of the night. "And you are how old, Mr. Perry?"

"Seventeen," I reply, leaving off the "sir" deliberately. Testing the waters.

Dr. Peterson records this, then pauses. "Mr. Anderson..." I'm expecting him to dismiss Todd, but his voice trails off. "I assume that you are a friend of Mr. Perry's?"

Todd replies with a shy nod.

"Well then," Dr. Peterson segues. "I suppose you'll be able to help me. Have you noticed any changes in Neil lately?"

A nervous glance passes from Todd to myself, and Dr. Peterson notices. "Often times, the patient is not as observant as his or her companions," he explains. "It is easier to analyze someone else than to analyze yourself, hypothetically speaking."

I nod, understanding his point, but my mind is elsewhere. The fact that he referred to me as "the patient" is throwing me for a loop, though I can't say why.

After a moment, Todd clears his throat. "Well, he's been, um, losing weight, I think." He shoots me an apologetic glance, like a new puppy who's bitten its master.

Dr. Peterson nods, scribbling on his clipboard. "Anything else, Todd?" I notice that he's using our first names. This might have been considered out of line if the two of us weren't so helpless.

"Um, he's not sleeping much," Todd responds, then backpedals. "I mean, he's sleeping, but not as much. Not enough, maybe."

I can't argue with that one. After all, here we are, conferring in the small hours of the morning. I'm finding the cot surprisingly comfortable, and I can hardly keep my eyes open.

The room is silent for a moment. Dr. Peterson is looking at Todd, his head tilted ever-so-slightly to the left. Then he smoothes a hand over his unkept hair and continues. "Any fevers? Cold sweats during the night?"

Todd's Adam's apple is bobbing visibly now. He nods wordlessly, unsettled by the doctor's accuracy. I'm starting to feel the same way.

Dr. Peterson takes a step towards me, then slips his pen into a slot on his clipboard. "I'm going to call your parents, Neil. Then I'm going to have to draw some blood, send it over to Montpelier to be tested."

There's something ominous about the way he says "tested". I can't place my finger on it, but a shiver runs up my spine nonetheless. I nod somberly.

With that, Dr. Peterson gives his clipboard one final tap, then ducks out of the room, closing the door behind him. When I hear the click of the telephone, I look up at Todd.

He is now bracing himself against the wall, has both palms pressed against it. His lips are pressed tightly together, I assume to keep from trembling. Before I can speak, his back begins to slide down the wall until he's crouched in the corner. Only now does he look at me.

"Todd."

After a moment, he scoots across the floor until he's leaning on the side of my cot, breathing deeply. His head is bowed, and a single tear glistens on the end of his nose. I can almost hear the "I'm scared, Neil" that I know is poised on his tongue. With more effort than should ever be necessary, I reach out to place my hand on his shoulder. "Baby," I whisper.

Todd glances up at me, tears now gathering at the corners of his stormy blue eyes. He knows I rarely use this epithet.

I place my hand on the side of his face, stroking the line of his cheekbone with my thumb. After all he's done for me, this is the least I can do. And I'm more than happy to do it. I move my hand to the back of his neck, rubbing gently, and then cup his head in my palm. "It's okay."

Todd barely has time to nod before we hear footsteps again. With a final, loaded glance, he gets to his feet and returns to his corner, clasping his hands behind him just as the door opens.

Dr. Peterson is wearing powder-blue gloves, carrying a metal tray. "You may want to step outside, Mr. Anderson." His tone is genuine, and I can tell that he is actually making a suggestion. Not like those teachers who disguise demands as requests.

I expect Todd to look my way, but he doesn't. With a quick nod, he brushes past Dr. Peterson and shuts the door behind him.

I don't blame him for this. He has taken on as much as he can handle at the moment. So I let him go.

"I'm going to need you to sit up, Neil," Dr. Peterson says. He kneels beside the cot and places the tray beside him, where I can see everything on it. Dr. Peterson chooses the largest of three oblong plastic packets and tears it open, extracting the needle inside and inserting it into the end of a plastic syringe. He places this back onto the tray and picks up a strip of latex, which he secures around my upper arm.

As he disinfects a patch of skin with a chemical-smelling wipe, I take the opportunity to make small talk. That needle looks awfully threatening, and I'd prefer not to think about it being plunged into my arm any more than completely necessary. "Sorry I woke you."

Dr. Peterson rolls his eyes, then smiles at me warmly. "Don't worry about it. I was on the phone, anyway." There's a look in his eyes that I recognize immediately, instinctively.

I nod, as if to indicate closure, but I'm actually giving him permission to continue. There's an unspoken understanding that can pass between two people, I've realized, when they have something in common.

Dr. Peterson reaches into the breast pocket of his pajamas, extracting a weathered leather folder. It looks like a business card holder. He lifts the flap to reveal a palm-sized photograph. A man holding an axe smiles into the camera, his foot up on a tree stump. He's wearing a red flannel shirt and has a short, graying beard.

"That's Thomas," Dr. Peterson whispers. I can hear the affection in his voice, but it isn't unsettling. Comforting, actually. He raises an eyebrow at me, and I smile. "At our cabin in the Appalachians."

My hand moves up to my chest, and I pat my own breast pocket. The photo crinkles under my fingers, and I know that I don't even have to extract it. He already knows.

Dr. Peterson closes the folder and slips it back into his pocket, then picks up the syringe again. "I apologize in advance," he says.

I nod, then avert my eyes. The needle breaks the skin of the inside of my elbow. "Got it," I hear Dr. Peterson announce. I'm not quite sure what he means, but it's assuring anyway. After a few seconds, I feel him remove the needle. "All done," he tells me. I let out a breath that I wasn't aware I was holding, then I glance back over at my arm.

Dr. Peterson is dabbing the area with a wad of cotton. He rips open a white paper packet and presses a gauze pad to the puncture, then secures it with medical tape. "That's going to smart for a while," he reports sympathetically as he unties the tourniquet.

"I'll be okay," I reply with half a grin. It's all that I can manage.

For a moment, all movement ceases. I look up at Dr. Peterson, who's staring at me with the same seemingly-blank expression, the same slight tilt of his head. The emotion in his half-closed, drooping, forest-green eyes is unreadable.

I'm about to open my mouth to speak when he extends his arm and places a gloved hand on my shoulder. His touch is comforting and fatherly, and I feel my heart clench momentarily. I've only known Dr. Peterson for a few minutes, but I feel like I've known him all my life. It's an eerie, yet reassuring sensation that I've only experienced once before, and that was with Mr. Keating, on the first day of classes.

Before I can respond at all, his hand vacates my shoulder and grabs the metal tray. Dr. Peterson gets to his feet and his fingers close around the door handle. "I'll send Todd back in," he assures me, then gives me one last warm smile before disappearing.

Exhaling deeply, I close my eyes and rest my head on the fresh-smelling pillow behind me. I hear shuffling footsteps, and then the squeak of bare feet on linoleum. Even before he speaks, I know that Todd is beside me. I can even recognize the sound of his breathing. And this comforts me and saddens me at the same time.

"Neil," Todd whispers. He wraps his warm, soft fingers around my hand and pulls it up to his face, pressing his lips to it silently. "Oh, Neil."

I open my eyes and pull his gaze. He repositions himself on the floor, and I guide his head to rest on my chest. "Shush, baby," I whisper. "It's okay. It's all gonna be okay."

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**Okay, I'll be the first to say it. COMPLETE FLUFF. **

**But admitting it is the first step, right? **

**~JD**


	4. A Loving One

This morning, I awake from a nightmare. My blankets are twisted around my legs, and my face is damp with sweat and tears. I'm running my hands through my hair, breathing hungrily, when I see Todd.

He lifts his head and gets to his feet, pushing back the chair he was sitting in. "Neil?" Placing his soft, cool hand on the side of my face, he studies me with bloodshot eyes. "You okay?"

I close my eyes and lean into his touch. My breathing slows. "Just dreams," I tell him dismissively, and I hope he'll let it rest. I just want to sit with him for a while before I have to tell him.

And fortunately, in his typical fashion, Todd accepts dismissal. I feel him lean slowly towards me. "I hate this," he whispers, without even a hint of selfishness in his tone. Part of me is clawing at my insides, wishing I could just tell him and let him leave and wallow in my depression.

The other part of me feels the gentle pressure of his lips against my forehead, and I know I couldn't survive if he left.

I open my eyes, reaching up to touch his face. I trace the line of his cheekbone, then his jaw, with the tip of my index finger. Never have I seen beauty and purity more thoroughly manifested in human form. His bangs twitch as if there was a breeze in this stuffy room, and his stormy blue eyes never break from my own. "I love you," I whisper.

I watch his lips part in preparation to speak, but no words escape. Todd's face slowly crumples, and I pull him into my arms. His tears quickly soak through my hospital gown. I know he's needed this for a while now.

"I love you, Neil, I love you, I love you," he chants between silent sobs.

I wrap my arms tighter around his trembling frame, guiding his head into the crook of my neck, and rock gently back and forth. Not once do I shush him, or tell him to stop. This is the least I can give him, the very least he deserves. I weave my fingers into his hair, gradually sliding over to the other side of the bed, and he reluctantly pulls away to position himself beside me.

"I don't know what to do anymore," he whimpers softly. He crosses his hands in his lap, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. "I don't know."

Slowly, purposefully, I wrap my arms around him. He gives in without hesitation, burrowing deeper and deeper into my bony embrace, until neither one of us could say where I stop and he begins. I rest my chin atop his head. "You've done plenty."

I hear him inhale sharply several times, as if he wants to say something but his lungs are in disagreement. After a few beats, he finally relaxes against me, and when his breathing levels out, I realize that he's fallen asleep.

For a moment, there is silence. But I've come to find that silence never lasts. Before long, I pick up the steady ticking of Todd's wristwatch. Footsteps overhead. The sound of breathing, in and out. I've learned to relish those rare moments when there is perfect silence, when I can hear myself think for only a split second. Those moments are really the only time I can think anymore. My brain is static, sparking and fizzling, rendered useless.

Dr. Peterson comes in after some time, empty-handed, his reading glasses crooked on his nose. Before I can even shake Todd awake, he is alert. We untangle our limbs, but we don't separate completely. Even if Todd was uncomfortable with Peterson in the room, I don't think he would've had the strength to move. He never reaches a state of restful sleep anymore. He's a drone. A loving one, but still a drone. As am I.

Peterson pulls a chair over and sits down. His face is expressionless, his eyes glassy.

He speaks.

And in the year-long minute that passes next, I realize that silence can, in fact, last.


End file.
